


A Fortune-teller

by bbgon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 09, Post-Season/Series 09 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbgon/pseuds/bbgon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Hell Bent, the Doctor tries to come to terms with his lost memories. Missy seizes the opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fortune-teller

The Doctor was wandering around the endless fairgrounds of Akhaten. Browsing. The word sprang into his memory, pronounced by an indistinct girl’s voice. “We are just browsing,” she said at some point, although he could not remember who, where or when.   
He had a dim recollection that he had visited this place before, with that girl. She did something brave and clever here, saving the day. He knew that forgetting her was his own choice, his only choice, but it did not make the result any easier to bear. There was a hole in his mind and in his heart that needed filling, so he searched for any bits and pieces of information he could find. By now, he was not sure what his main motive was: did he miss the actual girl that had once been by his side, or did he just hate the hole she had left, the not-knowing, the finality of this unsolvable mystery?  
Someone grabbed his arm.   
“Fancy a prophecy, sir?” a hooded old hag clutched his sleeve with her dirty fingers. The Doctor tried to pull away.   
“I think I’ve had enough prophecies lately, thanks.”  
“Just a little fortune-telling then, sir?” the hag croaked. “For a poor old woman to put something on the table tonight.”  
Her hand trembled. The Doctor sighed.   
“Alright, alright.”  
On Akhaten, they accepted memorabilia as payment, objects of emotional value. He rummaged through his pockets until he found a dried lily petal. It reminded him of the fortress where he had spent 4.5 billion years trying to break through the strongest wall in the universe with his bare hands. The petal was full of memories, for sure, but not something he wanted to remember too often. Resolutely, he handed it over to the woman. She clasped it between her palms, as was the habit of the tradesfolk here, and listened to the piece of life enclosed in the dry plant. After a minute, she gave a satisfied nod.   
“This’ll do. Come on, love.”  
Once again, she clutched his sleeve, as if she feared that he would escape, and led him between the stalls to her tiny tent hidden in a dark corner.   
“In here, love.”  
She let him in first and followed bending almost to the ground to pass through the low door. The tent seemed a bit bigger on the inside than the Doctor had expected. At least, they both fit in without sitting on each other’s heads. He settled cross-legged on some rugs. The woman also seated herself, after some shuffling and murmuring. It was too dark to make out her face, but the Doctor could feel her stare.   
“What kind of fortune-telling do you do then?” he asked too gaily to sound natural. “Glass globe, tasseomancy — I’d fancy some tea, by the way, — chiromancy?”  
His voice trailed off, as he felt the hag’s fingers with sharp nails on his.  
“Chiromancy it is,” he decided, hoarsely. Something was wrong about the woman’s hands. Maybe not wrong, but distinct. Or maybe he had just been alone for too long and forgot how a human touch felt.   
The woman began to hum quietly. Her humming grew louder and louder, as if she was working herself into some sort of a trance. Suddenly, she squeezed his hand, her fingernails digging into his skin.   
“I s-see,” she hissed.   
“What?” the Doctor enquired.   
“Whom. I see someone — ”  
“Yes?”  
The woman shot him a sharp glance.   
“Psst. I see — a person — “  
“Me?”  
The woman did not answer. She returned to humming for another minute, and then exclaimed in a loud whisper.  
“I see a person! Old. Very old. Very lonely — “  
“Why do all foretellers say that to me?”  
“Shush. Very old and very lonely,” the woman repeated with a hint of annoyance. “And very clever.”  
“They usually say ‘wise’.”   
“Clever” will do for now. Ahem,” she resumed her dreamy fortune-telling voice. “Very lonely, and in desperate need of a friend. There is someone,” she dug her nails deeper into the Doctor’s palm, “this person misses deeply. A friend. A companion. Not any friend, mind you. A certain special friend who was taken away long ago.”  
The Doctor swallowed.   
“I see — someone obsessed with their friend. So much time spent together, so much in common, so many memories. This person would commit a crime, go to the end of the universe, risk whole planets, even the time and space itself, to get their friend back. Anything, anytime, for a tiny chance. Their friend left a hole in their life that cannot be filled with anything else. An open wound. It hurts, and it burns. And it must be filled.”  
She fell silent. Her hand was dry and hot, and the Doctor could feel the fluttering of her pulse at her fingertips.   
“How?” he asked.   
“Listen.”  
The Doctor listened. There was a distant murmur of the fair. He told his brain to filter it out. It ceased. There was his breathing and his heartbeat. Accelerated. Agitated. The Doctor closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and held it. Almost quiet. The fortune-teller’s breath was deliberately slow and measured, but her blood fluttered in her fingertips with the beats of her heart. One, two…   
“Those,” she interrupted his thoughts suddenly, “who live with an open wound can be infected easily. If they are not helped, they will go to very dangerous places, very dark places.”  
“I know. I’ve been there.”  
“Good. Then you understand what it’s like.”  
“What’s next?”  
The woman chuckled lightly.   
“Listen. Think. Then come back.” After a pause, the hag let go of his hand. “Your time’s up, love.”  
The Doctor got up to his feet. Still stooping in the low tent, he remembered one last question.   
“Where can I find her?”  
“Whom?”  
“Clara. I think her name was Clara.”  
He thought he heard the woman groan.   
“End of business!” she declared. “If you want more, you’ll have to make an appointment for tomorrow.”   
With a wave of her grubby hand, she urged him to leave. The Doctor stepped outside, into the warm sunlight obscured by canvas tilts. His hands still bore the woman’s nail marks, but they were fading quickly. So was the uneasy, distinct feeling left by her fingertips below the nail marks. The fluttering against his skin, the beating of her pulse, accelerated, agitated, excited. One, two, three, four. One, two —   
“Wait!” the Doctor spun around, but the tent was gone.   
Come back tomorrow, she said. He wondered if she would be back tomorrow. Then, he wondered if he wanted her to be back tomorrow. He sat down on the warm pavement, leaned against the wall and hugged his knees. This required some thought. He might just have enough time till the next day. The Doctor closed his eyes, and listened.


End file.
